221B
by not-my-division
Summary: John Watson is about to meet his new possible flat-mate, Sherlock Holmes. Their connection is electric, and sparks start to fly. Rated M for sexual content.


**221B**

John Watson stood outside of 221B Baker Street, not sure whether to ring or knock or wait. He had only just met Sherlock Holmes, after all. He was deductive, calculating, a right genius. With just one glimpse at John, he knew everything and more about his life. This man was extraordinary, a mind that would never quit. In the hour since meeting him, John couldn't stop thinking about him. How did he know his entire life? What did he know but wasn't saying? Why would Sherlock want an invalided army doctor as a flat-mate? Can he tell I'm here? He wondered. He said meet at three…

Just as he reached to the buzzer, the door opened. Sherlock's icy blue eyes peered at John as if he had asked a question and was waiting for an answer.

"What?" John asked curtly.

"Do you plan on standing out there forever?"

John followed Sherlock's tall, slender silhouette through the dimly lit hallway and up a flight of stairs. It's just the trousers, only the trousers, John thought as he attempted to break his gaze from Sherlock's backside. He couldn't tell where he stood on the man. All day unable to stop his mind from picturing the eyes, those soul-probing blue eyes, his mop of curly black hair, messy, yet orderly, his high, mysterious cheekbones, his narrow waist, cinched by a sleek black suit, everything about him. He couldn't shake the image of the tall, dark stranger and his immaculate wit. There was so much more than just cleverness to Sherlock Holmes, John simply couldn't identify what it was that enticed him so.

"Welcome to 221B Baker Street," Sherlock said, breaking John's thought cloud.

The room was a sort of cave, clutter everywhere, not a single surface devoid of seemingly meaningless objects and bizarre elements of experiments long past. The kitchen was no less of a mess, only one chair at the table and a smattering of odds and ends consuming the space. The single chair, left askew, as if just risen from, had a small niche of cleanliness about it. A microscope sat on the table in front of the chair, a light glowing amidst the clutter.

"It's not bad, could do with some cleaning up," John said as Sherlock showed him about the place.

"It's enough."

"I would, of course, need some space for me to, well, okay, let me be frank. My therapist tells me it's good to keep up a blog, you see, so I would need some space for my laptop," John stammered awkwardly.

Sherlock strode to the desk, an aura of confidence carrying each stride across the room, and with one swipe of his arm, scattered all of the items littering the desk onto the floor. Something stirred deep within John. The composure, the way Sherlock held himself, the way he attacked every single motion with a catlike ferocity enticed him.

Hero worship, it's only hero worship, he told himself, just impressed by him, that's all. He's impressive. He's clever, he's confident, he's bloody brilliant… And bloody handsome. Tall, cheekbones high and—NO. No. Pull yourself together.

John snapped himself out of his mind, brought back to reality by Sherlock standing mere centimeters from him.

"It's astonishing how I can read your thoughts from your face, John Watson," Sherlock breathed. His deep, mellifluous voice electrified John, exciting something long since hidden away.

"I—I don't know what you mean," he replied, not daring to move a step away from Sherlock.

Sherlock moved yet closer, just close enough to not be touching, but to create a static between himself and John.

"You think you're so discreet, hiding it all in your head, but it's written all over you. Dilated pupils, beads of sweat forming across your brow, deepened breathing, gaze fixed upon me… You've been at the war far too long, Watson. I could smell you from a mile away…. The endorphins…" Sherlock crooned into John's ear, his warm breath tickling and tantalizing him.

The two men stood for a moment, stock still, bodies just moments from touching. Sherlock lifted a hand, hovering for just a moment before placing it on the nape of John's neck and lowering himself to his level. He paused, but only briefly, inhaling John's salty scent, brushing his lips ever so lightly against the soldier's.

A tremor ran through John, igniting him with each touch of Sherlock's. He flung his hand to Sherlock's slim waist, pulling him sharply towards himself, each inch of the tall, slim body against his own. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's, forcefully at first, gently pulling away after what seemed like a year.

John stepped back, shocked, mind reeling with what he had just done.

"I—That—Oh God."

Sherlock stood, fixed in place, piercing blue eyes locked on John. He approached him, firm and intent, not wasting a single moment in slamming him against the wall. He kissed him passionately, a sense of need, not want, in every beat of the tango danced with their lips. John struggled for air, gasping between each moment of contact with Sherlock's lips. Sherlock slid a hand under John's sweater, feeling the taught soldier's muscles tensing. He stepped back, his breath hot and heavy, and absorbed the image. John, pressed against the wall, his chest heaving, sweating. He laughed, a sly and cunning laugh before pouncing back on John, shredding his clothes off fervently. He slid a hand down John's sticky back and grabbed onto his solid behind, sucking on his neck, his chest, his abdomen.

John shook under Sherlock's touch, overcome by an ecstasy not felt in an eternity. Sherlock paused, ran his tongue along the inside of John's hip, and seized him by the waist, bending him over the desk. John clutched the edge of the desk, channeling the flurries of sensation coursing through his body into his knuckles as Sherlock removed his suit with a dexterity he never knew he had. He approached the desk, the two hot, sticky bodies pressed together, sweat and breath mingling, binding them together by a shared heat. Sherlock lightly ran his tongue across John's shoulder before standing himself upright and thrusting into him. His deep, guttural groan rang out with John's higher one as he grabbed the side of the desk, pounding in to the milder body beneath him. The two bodies moved as one, forward, back, forward, back, beating a cadence, ticking madness and bliss into both men's souls. Long fingers untangled and re-tangled in John's short hair as Sherlock methodically thrust into him, sinking into the rise and fall, the wave-like motion, the passion mounting higher with each sway of his hips. John's body quivered, rattling the desk and its contents as Sherlock's rhythm grew faster, more urgent, stronger. The rush began to come over John, an ember, burning, erupting, his mind growing emptier, each inch of him filling with fire, breathing no longer a necessity. Sherlock stopped, arresting him for only a moment just before the tipping point, fully inside of him, and whispered, voice heavy with sensuality, "Wait."

The air, the world, stood still around them, laden with heat and moisture, and Sherlock resumed, each thrust growing less rhythmic, less systematic, erratic, powerful, almost violently ecstatic, as John struggled to hang on, bordering on pain as he attempted to contain himself. With one last firm thrust Sherlock gave in, collapsing on John, both overcome by nirvana, two men forming one entity, removed from the realm of the palpable, each molecule simmering with electric shock.

They stayed for a moment in place, Sherlock laying on John, mind and body tuned together, until Sherlock withdrew, gathered his clothing from the floor, and without a passing glance at the man bent over the desk, sauntered off into his bedroom.

John's wits had begun to come about him again as he peeled himself off of the lacquered wood, a patch of dampness left in a film, evaporating slowly into the humidity of the air. Oh cock, he thought, now I've done it. You go away for years, you get a massive injury, estrange yourself, and apparently go gay. Thoughts began to race, identity questioned, all certainty slowly cracking around John Watson. He gathered his clothes from the ground and struggled into them, mind dancing in the fields of the unknown.

Inhale, exhale, keep breathing. He paced outside Sherlock's bedroom door, beating pits in the ground in the two foot span he traveled.

"I can hear you thinking, it's distracting."

"Sherlock…"

"Thinking, distracting, quiet."

"Sherlock, I need to speak with you."

The door opened, just a sliver, an eye peeping through the crack.

"Can I help you?"

"That—I… Sherlock, I—I'm not…" John trailed off, unable to coherently organize his racing thoughts.

"How do you think in that tiny brain?"

"I'm not gay, Sherlock, I have… I have no idea what that was. I guess I've just, you know…"

Sherlock emerged from his room, eyes darting about John, examining him, figuring him out. He paused, held his breath, calculated. A flash, and Sherlock's mouth was back on John's, tongue sliding along the inside his cheek.

"Not gay…" Sherlock moaned under his breath as he drew away, "Doubtful."

John was reeling, suddenly it was all clear, his mind made up, his world exposed, a light gone off somewhere deep within him. He grabbed Sherlock's arm as it disappeared through the doorway, pulled him towards himself, and ripped away at the suit, haphazardly put back on since before. Never had he wanted anything more than Sherlock, body, Sherlock, mind, Sherlock, passion.

"John."

"Shut up."

He seized the taller man by the shoulders, hurling him down onto the neatly made bed face-first. John tore away at his own clothes, cursing himself for putting them back on in the first place, and paused in his fervor to imbibe the view. Sherlock, nude, laying like an angel fallen, marble skin almost glowing, each curve of his body sinuous and serpentine. This. This was why he met Sherlock Holmes.

He made no move, dared not to stir as the soldier climbed on top of him, lithe as ten years younger and before the war. John relished the moment, infusing into himself the way it felt to have Sherlock between his thighs, each muscle, each limb at his mercy. The power he felt, turned from a mouse to a lion by the fox. He grasped each of Sherlock's arms, pinning them above his head and holding them down with one hand, all the power of the English army contained in that hand. A laugh— dominating, powerful— and John drove himself into Sherlock, watching as his spine curved in with each rocking blow. His free hand ensnared in Sherlock's mess of black ringlets, pulling his head back, the low groans of pain and pleasure slithering out, harmonizing with John's throaty, virile, masculine tones.

The bed creaked, thudded, John released Sherlock's hair, bunched the bed sheets in his fist, collapsed slightly, the visage of strength, of power, of virility crumbling, reducing, melting into the rippling sinews and gleaming flesh. He faltered, briefly, reaching his other hand to grab the headboard, a magnetic force pulling John's chest to Sherlock's back. They rocked in unison, the two men, facedown, as John drilled the fury bred into him in the army into every movement of his body. Grab, release, sheets, headboard, blurred images darting by, clenching his legs, his every muscle about Sherlock. Sherlock's hands wandered, found John's, fingers interlaced. Each pulse burnt a surge through their bodies, their bodies as one, hands entwined, legs, torsos, plastered together. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's skin, kissing the back of his neck, the same spot over. Bliss breathed out of Sherlock, each contortion of his body winding him up, fingers squeezing around John's, quivering, shaking. John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, growling, practically beating him with each thrust of his body as he grew consumed, drowning in the rush. Sherlock writhed beneath him, pain, pleasure, bliss, torture, blending, exploding, sending him over the edge. John, unsteady, shaky, thrust in once more, holding on to the surge, tormenting Sherlock, not letting go. Both men uttered a cry of rapture as John convulsed, each muscle gripping Sherlock, all strength drained from his body.

John sat up, trembling head to toe, and withdrew. Sherlock's body was littered with bruises and a bite mark glaring on his shoulder. A job well done, thought Watson. He chuckled at the idea of what may be to come and stood up.

"I'll be taking the flat, thank you," he said, and with a smack on Sherlock's behind, gathered up his dignity and swaggered out of the room.


End file.
